'A Narrative Essay Of Flipped'

Flipped
A Narrative by Katie “Sister of the Attorney” Hughett and Colton “Cold Knees” Shillings

Standing in the office with hate gradually growing in my body, I make a cup a coffee for the man who writes my paychecks. “Mike, get in here,” he states.
Guess who has to go buy him a bagel…again. “Yes sir,” I say on the outside, but on the inside a ball of fury builds. I keep my cool and go with the flow.
He doesn’t know this, but all of this just might come back and haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.
“Mike!--Mike!--Mike! Guess what day it is?” asked Mr. Mel.
“Fine, Cam.” I was then notified by my cubicle neighbor that I had to stay late because my boss “said so.” Little does my boss know my five-year-old daughter has a ballet
recital, and I promised her I would attend. This is now the fifth one I’ve had to miss. I can’t believe that he would do this to me. Why? What did I ever to him?
Quitting times rolls around for everyone except for me. I bet my daughter is so heartbroken because I promised her I would be there to watch her dance on the stage in her little tutu. Man, I really don’t want to be here….
I keep working until he says I can leave; the night rolls on--finally, at 11:00 P. M., long after the recital, dinner, and the only time I had to talk to my kids, I get to go home.
At home, I find everyone is asleep, so I decide to go to sleep and enjoy “my time off.” As soon as I hit the pillow, I fall into a deep sleep.
The horrid alarm wakes me; I get up from my soft, comfortable bed and ready myself and head out the door to my dreadful job.
A steamy bagel I retrieve from Louie’s Boston Bagels to Go burns my hand, and I drop my files from my open briefcase while trying to keep a single precious drop of coffee from falling on my dress pants.
I fail and drop the bagel too; it was blueberry! My papers are strewn on the sidewalk; my bagel is rolling toward a gutter, but not a single drop of coffee was
lost.
WHAT A WONDERFUL DAY!
I don’t even bother with the coffee and the bagel; however, my concern was drawn toward my flying papers. I had to retrieve them for my own good. I struggle to get them and finally collect all of them; I then run to work.
I slide through the doors and the doors of the elevator only to find that it’s out of order. Decisively, I skapper to the other elevator opposite this side of the skyscraper.
I finally reach my floor and start thinking of a “good-enough-excuse” as to why I am late; “Running after papers” isn’t very plausible in my bosses’ eyes.
I step out of the elevator to find the office in a quiet, subtle mood. Finally, a place I can relax. I get to my cubicle to find that, for once, I didn’t have direct orders from my boss to do something for him. Very odd.
As a smile starts to widen across my clean-shaven face, I look over my shoulder to find my boss crying on his desk. Oh, crap! It’s the bagel and coffee that he didn’t see in my hand as I walked in. Crying over a bagel!
I quietly knock on the door, only to hear more sobs coming from the room. Worried but confused, I hesitantly walk in. “What's the
matter?”
Wiping the tears off his face, he replies, “What are you doing in here? Get out!” Very shocked, I walk out.
Woah, my boss actually has a heart?
I continue my day very puzzled. Lunch came around, and my boss actually had orders for me. This was the first day that I thought of other things rather than going home.
My orders were to buy him another bagel--but instead of him telling me, he wrote it on a Post-it note.
When I got back from the bagel cart, I once again see my boss weeping in his office. I was hesitant to walk into his office this time; I felt the need to console him or something.
I walked in, but instead of being confronted and told angrily to get out, he opened up to me. “Mike, please...sit down.” I did.
“Might I ask what’s the matter?”
His mouth starts to open and out comes all of the truth. He tells me all of his problems...his depression...nothing to look forward to except work--how his wife took away his kids; he doesn’t know what to do.
I felt bad but said nothing. Silence.
“Well, say something!” he said.
“Uhm, I’m sorry,” I say.
I then offered him a number to the office of a therapist I used to know. * * *
Time passed. Carl and I have grown to be good friends. Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s strange to live life so disillusioned--to think that others really have it better than ourselves. Our lives, both of us, were so much alike. Both of us have faced some level of depression, domestic unrest--so what! I can get to my kids at any time, and I now thank Carl for that. He sees his kids every chance he gets…. Therapy sessions are going great according to Carl though.